When Sadness Becomes Too Deep for Words
by Genevia
Summary: Pretenses are what comprises his life. Torments are what fills his waking hours.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Glee. If I did, there would be no Wemma, there would be uhm—Willy (What do you call WillxHolly anyway?)?

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><p>He only lies in his bed, his body limp and eyes distant. Darkness surrounds him. The utter blackness makes him glow faintly as angry red and violet bruises stand out from his naked skin. Silence echoes around him, singing of nothing but eerie stillness. He shivers from the cold yet does nothing to cover up his pale body. He doesn't bother to anymore. What is the use anyway? The cold freezing his entire being is not one caused by the wind and ice, but by the emptiness pulsating from within him.<p>

If this is what it felt like to be dead, it is sort of—nice.

There is only serenity and blissful numbness. What more is there to ask for? After years of torment, this single sensation already feels like heaven.

Years of torment, it is actually a hyperbole. Those 'years' comprise only of four years. Not really that many. Yet every excruciating and humiliating moment he has experienced seems to be longer: a minute would stretch into an hour, and an hour to a day.

A long time ago, as if from some distant time, seeing him like this was unlikely. In the past, he was confident, blissful, bitchy, sassy and brimming with life.

What had happened to such a spirit, one may ask. The explanation is simple, no need for analytical minds or deep reasoning.

They have broken him.

Everything and everyone has a breaking point. And he has already reached his.

A sigh escapes his rose pink lips. He is tired, tired of every second that he has to live. In fact, he just wants to sink into eternal peace. However, he knows he can't. There are people, no matter how few they are, who actually care about him and to leave them is pure selfishness.

But can't he be selfish even just this once?

He is always there for anyone, always offering his shoulder to cry on and words of advice. Yet despite all of that, he is the one denied of having someone else to turn to. There is no one who is capable of understanding the pain he is going through. The people around him see his tormentors harassing him. They say that they care, but do they really? They always seem to be preoccupied with their own drama that they cannot spare a thought for him. He entertains their tears, their hysterical wailing.

No one is there for him.

Will there even ever be?

He has already resigned to his fate. Lachrymose, depression, torment. Those are what his _fate_ contains. He is tired of struggling to escape it and failing to do so. He has long realized that fighting it is futile and that he is just wasting his strength and time.

He feels so helpless. He knows that there is no escape a blackhole such as this. In every time when he feels like he can rise up and battle it, he is knocked back down. Lather, rinse and repeat.

How could he resist something more powerful than him anyway? In its eyes, he is only a speck of insignificant human life that could be toyed with.

He doesn't fight anymore. The fire in him is gone.

The life he lives is only a pretense. How can you truly revel in your existence when you are already dead inside? His subsistence is contradiction and he knows that. Yet he understands that he is not living for himself, but for others.

He may be living an empty life right now but he is aware what his death would do to others. Better is one broken life than a couple of broken ones. He may suffer, but at least it isn't the people he loves.

Slowly, he stands up from his supposed coffin and represses his thoughts into the back of his mind. Morning has come. Its arrival signals that he has to go out into the world with a fake smile on his pale lips and a happy bounce in his heavy steps.

The darkness that has covered his bubble disappears for the meanwhile. It will come back soon, that much he knows. It can never stay away from the one that summons its mere presence. Black attracts black.

With the void gone, his surroundings clear and one can finally see that he is in his room. A black and white monochromatic world that is his façade. He walks to his closet and reaches out to grab a pair of clothes he has prepared a day before. And then he falls into his routine, one he has been accustomed to.

As moments pass, his eyes gather gleam, his lips curve into a smile, his pale complexion taking on a rosy color. He exits his room, greets his father and step-mother and waves goodbye with fake bliss in his tone. He gets into his Navigator, blasts his Wicked playlist and sings along, his voice soaring into the cold morning air.

He arrives at McKinley, quickly parking his baby. Mercedes quickly finds him and they enter the school whilst chatting about the newest issue of Vogue.

That was the Kurt Hummel everyone knew.

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><p><strong>AN: **So yeah, uhm, two angst fics in one day? I'm really becoming an angst!kittie, aren't I? However I need to know if I am actually any good with it so won't you please review and tell me how I am doing? Am I good or bad or just plain horrible? I just really _really_ want to know! Thank you in advance!

Review... Review... Review... Lest the rabies-ridden angst!kittie will bite you!


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